


The Choice was Made, but it can Change

by Sherlock1110



Series: Changes [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Dom John, Dominance, Domme Mary, Fluff, Kneeling, M/M, Multi, Sub Sherlock, Submission
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-09-28 08:57:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10082486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlock1110/pseuds/Sherlock1110
Summary: Sherlock left Baker Street and hasn't looked back.Mary and Mycroft set out to fix that





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by sherlockian4evr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta read by sherlockian4evr

“Sherlock,” there was a knock on his bedroom door and the detective glanced up from his microscope.

“Greg?”

The DI came in and a dropped a few crime scene photos on his desk. “Nothing special, a bit gruesome, we think it's the brother.”

Sherlock pushed his microscope out of the way and flicked through them. After a moment, he smiled. “Correct.”

Greg paused from his examination of some of the things on the detective's shelf. He looked across at the younger man. “Seriously?”

Sherlock grouped the photos together again and passed them back. “Yeah. Seriously.” He let an eyebrow raise with a smirk tugging at his lips. “You were right.”

Greg's grin lit up his face, but he said, “I thought it would get you out of the house.”

“You should stop trying to solve them then,” Sherlock noted down something from his own experiment on his jotter pad.

“Was that a compliment?”

“Maybe. Is that all?”

Greg hummed non-committedly.

Sighing, Sherlock put his pen down and span around in his chair. “Spit it out.”

“You should speak to John.”

Sherlock frowned, his eyebrows furrowing. “Why?”

“He's been trying to get hold of you for months.”

“He hasn't rung.”

“He's rung me. And when was the last time you even looked at your phone?”

He shrugged. “I don't need it. Or him. I'm doing just fine on my own.”

“You should talk to him,” he repeated, ignoring whatever he had to say.

“What for? I've got nothing to say to him.”

“You walked out of Baker Street months ago and he hasn't seen you since.”

“He knows where I am. We didn't argue, it wasn't on bad terms, I didn't go straight to drugs when I left. There's nothing to talk about.”

Greg sighed and shut the door behind him, the stubborn sod.

Sherlock slumped across the room and fell back against the headboard of his bed, flicking on the telly.

The news headline, popular newspaper owner Charles Augustus Magnussen was shot at point blank range in his office last month, floated across the screen. No one has been caught, police do not even have a suspect.

Sherlock shrugged and flicked over. God, he was soooo bored! It was a shame Greg had got the case right, it would have been fun to get out.

***

“We never go there for Christmas anymore.” Sherlock sat at the the table alongside his brother and the DI.

“We have to, little brother, I promised.” He had done no such thing, but Sherlock didn't need to know that.

The detective looked up from the food he was actually eating.

“Why?”

“I don't know. Something about, ‘family means everything’ Mummy said.”

The detective rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

***

It was December 23rd and Sherlock was sat sulking in his parents front room. Across from him was his brother, a chess board sat between them.

Sherlock shuffled the bishop diagonally 3 spaces by only blowing at it.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and moved his own bishop, but properly; with his fingers.

“Gotcha,” Sherlock grinned as his queen took it.

“Gotcha,” Mycroft mimicked as his king took Sherlock's queen.

“That's no fair!”

“Don't sulk, little brother, its very unbecoming.”

“I don't give a shit what it is.”

At the knock on the door, Mycroft pushed his chair back, relieved to be able to leave the room. “I'll get it.”

“Since when were you in a hurry to answer the door? You hate it. It's so very beneath you.”

Mycroft shrugged. “Better than sitting here and beating you at chess repeatedly.”

“Twice!” He argued, but his brother had left the room.

Sherlock sat and listened, but the front door was too far from the sitting room for him to hear much.

Instead, the sitting room door was opened and suddenly John was shoved in.

Sherlock's head snapped up.

“John.”

“Hi, Sherlock,” he replied as he stumbled, trying to retain his balance.

“You look about as surprised as I feel.”

“Mary said we were going to her friend's for Christmas.”

“She hasn't really lied…”

“What are you doing here?”

“Are you serious? This is my parents' place.”

John looked around in shock. “What?”

Both, John and Sherlock stormed out of the room and into the kitchen where Mycroft and Mary were sat at the table.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock snapped. “What the hell?!”

“Language, son,” Siger chastised from the kitchen doorway. He had always had the habit of appearing out of nowhere.

“Sorry, father.”

He nodded and headed off upstairs.

Sherlock ran his hand through his curls, mimicking the doctor almost exactly and at the same time.

Mary looked up pointedly and glanced between them. “You two so miss each other.”

They shared glances and John stepped forward. “Mary…”

“She wasn't the instigator, John,” Sherlock couldn't help but point out. “My brother was.”

“Actually, little bro, it was a joint effort.” He smiled at Mary in a way the younger Holmes had never seen before.

Sherlock turned his own glare on Mrs. Watson.

“Oh, come on! Look at the pair of you, you haven't said a word to each other in 4 months and you're already ganging up against myself and Mycroft.”

The pair shared a glance. Mary was right.

“I had to leave.”

John sniffed slightly. “I know, mate. And I know why you went… we need to talk. Properly.” He glared at his wife pointedly.

“This isn't my fault, sunshine She snapped, glaring at him. She rubbed her baby bump and Sherlock's eyes widened, as if noticing it for the first time.

“It's a girl,” John said before Sherlock could say anything.

“I know. I can tell.”

“Don't talk shit.”

They both smirked at one another before Mary shooed them out of the room. “Go on. Talk. You're boring me already.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock slumped into his father's armchair, not speaking, just staring off into space. The situation was beyond comprehension at the moment.

John just stood awkwardly at the door, looking around the room and taking it all in, he seemed to be feeling similarly to Sherlock. He was trying to not let the shock of the situation overwhelm him.

“Are you going to sit down or not?” Finally Sherlock spoke, but his gaze hadn't moved from the part of the wall that was clearly so interesting.

“We shouldn't be here. I didn't know your parents had moved…”

Sherlock shrugged, in all honesty he hadn't noticed either. That sort of thing wasn't important.

Eventually, John had had enough of standing like a numpty and he cautiously walked into the room, sitting opposite the detective, in what must have been his mother's armchair.

“So… how have you been?” He managed to ask.

“Quite bored actually,” Sherlock replied, finally looking away from the wall, and folded his hands up beneath his chin. “Lestrade solved a massive serial killer case the other day without my help. Got to the murderer first time.”

“Right,” John cleared his throat, he had never felt so awkward around his friend before. “You didn't call.”

“Why did I need to?” He looked genuinely confused at the idea.

“I was worried, Sherlock. You upped and walked out and haven't said a word to me since.”

The detective stared at his knees that he had brought up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them instead of his customary thinking position.

John leant forward, his elbows on his knees. “I understand why you went. But you're not yourself, Sherlock. You're so… different now.”

“Eastern Europe was hardly fun, John. But it was far easier there than it was here with you.”

John swallowed around the lump in his throat. He didn't like the sound of that. He felt the sudden urge to cry, but years of military self-control made him refrain from doing so. Before he could stop himself he opened his mouth and said, “I love you.”

Sherlock's head snapped up, from where he had been watching John's feet. “What?”

“I can't continue without you in my life, Sherlock. It's completely miserable.”

The detective sighed. This. Again. It was why he had left, why he had _needed_ to leave. “You've got Mary.”

“I know. I know I do. I love her to bits, as I will love my child. But it's not the same. She agrees, why do you think she tricked me here in the first place?”

Sherlock didn't reply for a while, thinking and barely breathing as he did so. “Do you still live at Baker Street?” He asked eventually.

John inclined his head. He couldn't bear to move out, not again, Mary hadn't even suggested it. It seemed she liked the confines of Baker Street far more than the flat they had on the outskirts of London.

It was clear what the doctor meant by that, so Sherlock didn't bother to question it for a verbal answer. He said, instead, “I can't go back to that, John. I'm sorry.”

“Mary told me about the sleeping problem. Why you couldn't on your own… she worked it out.”

Sherlock looked away, there was no need to mention he still barely slept. He hadn't touched the sleeping tablets the doctor had given him, he hated to rely on something that was arguably so simple. He had become accustomed to regular nights sleep with the doctor on his tail so often before his venture into Serbia. It had been one of their rules. “That's why I can't go back,” he whispered eventually. He'd sleep even less knowing John was in a bed with Mary and not him and yet be so close. He couldn't believe he had tried it so many weeks before.

John dropped his face in his hands, feeling utterly miserable. “What can I do to make this better? To make you trust me again? To make you come home.”

“I do trust you.”

The blond shook his head. “No, you don't. You used to, now you're sceptical about everything.”

“I've always been-”

“Don't, Sherlock. Stop trying to make me feel better. You moved out because I made you feel like shit.”

The detective couldn't help the duck of his head, John has used that tone of voice that had always worked before and clearly still did. “You didn't mean it.”

“Didn't I? I was horrid to you when you can home. 2 years in hell and then even longer because I was being-”

“John,” Sherlock interrupted. “It really doesn't matter.” He was over that.

The sound of a door knocking made Sherlock jump. He got to his feet and made his way to the front door, looking for an out of the conversation. A man he didn't recognise was stood there holding an envelope. It was a Sunday, it couldn't be a postman.

“Can I help?”

“Is a Doctor John Watson here?”

Sherlock frowned. “Who's asking?”

“Mr. Magnussen.”

“Magnussen… Magnussen,” he muttered to himself, then paused, his eyes going cloudy as he tried to work out where he had heard that name before. “Magnussen, Charles Augustus Magnussen, he's dead,” Sherlock pointed out.

The poor guy at the door looked confused.

“Yes, sir. He told me to bring this here, on this date.”

“Right,” the detective cleared his throat and then snatched the letter. He slammed the door in the young man's face and then settled back in his armchair, staring at the envelope. He examined it briefly, smelling it and running his fingers across the rough edges. He took in what he could from the outside and then threw it towards John.

“It's for you.”

“Me?” John looked up in shock. “I've been here less than an hour.”

Sherlock shrugged. “It's still for you.”

John glanced at the envelope much like Sherlock had, but obviously not taking in the same amount of detail.

Cautiously, John slid his finger through one end and pulled out the paper from the inside.

The detective watched as John read through the contents of the letter. The doctor's usually kind face dissolved and turned into blind fury.

“John?” Sherlock didn't like the look his old flatmate was giving the paper.

Before Sherlock realised what was happening, John was on his feet and out of the sitting room door.

Sherlock scrambled after him, beginning to understand what John had meant so many times when he had 'panicked'. He caught the older man up in time for him to kick the kitchen door in, ignoring the fact it wasn't his home as he was blinded by rage.

“John-”

“Get out, Mycroft.”

“What?” The government official looked appalled, his eyes darting to his brother.

“Now!” His tone was enough to mean business as Mycroft got to his feet.

Sherlock had snatched the letter out of John's hands by now and was reading through it. He took a few deep breaths before collapsing in the seat his older brother had vacated seconds before.

It was proof at how strong his and John's friendship was that despite the past months, the blond hadn't ordered him out of the room.

“Did you kill him?”


	3. Chapter 3

Mary looked up blankly, rubbing her belly. She was intrigued to find out what John was going on about.

“Did you?” John repeated, his tone had fallen deathly quiet.

“John, what are you-”

“Don't-” the blond held his hand up and closed his eyes. “Don't lie to me, Mary!” He couldn't believe this. He didn't want to have to, either. He took a step back and let his head thud into the wall.

“Who?” She asked at last.

Her fiancé gaped at that, that wasn't the question you asked at that point in time.

“Magnussen. Did. You. Kill. Him” The doctor's voice had dropped to barely a growl.

Mary looked away, “John-” she tried, but was cut off again.

“No! No don't. Do not even go there.” John kicked at a nearby chair leg with his toe, glad he had shoes on.

“You don't understand.”

“I think I do,” Sherlock held up a memory stick that had fallen out of the envelope earlier.

Mary's eyes widened on sight of it. “Where did you get that?”

Sherlock let his eyebrow raise. “That's not the question. What is, is what is on it?”

Mary watched him, her heart beginning to race slightly. He couldn't know what was on that, not ever, no one could. “Sherlock, you don't-”

“It must be important, it wouldn't have been in that envelope if it wasn't and your reaction is more than enough to prove it's vital in some way. You're a nurse... it could be patient details and such, but there is no reason for you to have that sort of thing on a memory stick, if it was it would be at the surgery. AGRA, is that some sort of code? Must be, it's blindingly obvious if you-”

“Sherlock,” the blond growled, heaving heavy breaths with his eyes shut. “Get to the bloody point.”

Before either man could say anything else, Mary was on her feet and had lunged for the memory stick. Despite being heavily pregnant, she overpowered Sherlock easily enough and had him pressed into the wall.

The detective didn't fight, not wanting to hurt either Mary or the baby.

That pissed John off to no end, because his wife had used that to her advantage - knowing Sherlock wouldn't want to hurt her and thus getting what she wanted as easy as anything.

Sherlock grunted as she pressed her knee between his legs, resting up against his bollocks. She snatched the memory stick from him as she held his arm up his back.

“John. What is on this memory stick will change everything between us.” She let the younger man go and Sherlock stepped sideways, away from the wall and away from Mary.

The Sherlock that he had been before Serbia fled in a hurry and he was left as the guilt ridden one that had returned.

John was still breathing heavily, his hands in fists, trying his hardest to get a grip of himself. He was leant against the wall, using the solid structure to hold himself up. He felt stupid, but he knew if he stepped away he would lash out at something.

“Why did you kill him?” He asked, as controlled as he could manage.

Mary closed her eyes, when she opened them again, she was watching the memory stick in her hand like it would burst into flames and disappear if she stared at it long enough.

“To protect you. To protect us. He knew...” She shook her head; the mere thought of what could have happened was enough. “He knew things about me that would ruin everything we have.”

John turned and put his foot through the nearest chair. It made a satisfying crack as the wood splintered, but Sherlock flinched where he had stopped in the corner.

“John, please, say something.”

Sherlock didn't know how it happened, but John managed to regain control of his temper and he straightened up, his hands balled into fists. However it had happened, he was extremely glad it had.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Sherlock stepped forward. If it wasn't for the circumstances he would have been delighted when the doctor wrapped his arms around him. He stepped back to support the impact and then glanced at Mary. He understood all of this far more than he had let on.

It made sense, the woman that had been at the wedding... Janine, she had been on the news, having passed out during the murder, or so everyone had thought. Sherlock had been the only one to suspect something different and it was the only reason Mary had befriended her.

The nurse had collapsed back into the chair, her eyes going wide at the sight before her. It was Christmas, this couldn't be happening. She left her hands on her belly and tried to regain control of her own emotions. Yes, what she had done was extreme, but it had been for the right reasons. She was surprised John found her real identity (or what he knew so far) to be that much of a shock. Especially considering who his best friend is.

“We're going for a walk,” Sherlock said after a moment of holding a sobbing, seething doctor to his chest. When Mary went to speak, he merely glanced at her and she nodded.

“Ok,” she whispered.

***

John had insisted on holding Sherlock's hand as they walked through the fields at the back of the Holmes estate.

“This situation is un-bloody believable.”

“Is it though?” Sherlock asked softly. “Is it really?”

“What?” John stopped in his tracks and let Sherlock's hand go.

“Look who you turned to when you came home from Afghanistan, John. Me. Me, of all people.”

“Sherlock-”

“Don't. I'm cursed, John, I find trouble or it finds me. All the time, and I like it so I won't change. But you... you had a choice. You had the choice to turn away at Barts all those years ago. But you didn't. You had the choice to leave me with the cabbie, but you didn't.”

“What are you saying?” John's hands were in fists again.

“You are abnormally attracted to this sort of thing, it's why we get on so well. Is it really that surprising that you married trouble too?”

John closed his eyes and breathed in heavily. “What do I do?”

“You can't ask-”

“Sherlock, what do I do?” He repeated dangerously.

“You talk to Mary. You find out as much of her past that you want to know. Then you make your choice.”

“Not me. We.”

“What?”

“We. We will speak to Mary and decide what to do together. You're a part of my life, Sherlock, whether you want to be or not. I need you. Will you stay with me?”

Sherlock swallowed around a lump in his throat then nodded once

***

Sherlock didn't realise how far the pair of them had walked and when they got back to the house they were exhausted.

“Sherlock, where is everyone?”

The detective managed to run up the stairs to check.

“No one here.”

John opened the door to check outside.

“The car's gone.” John pulled his gun out of his coat that was hanging up and cocked it. “What the hell is going on?”

Sherlock's eyes widened in realisation. He grabbed his phone. “Erm, John.”

The blond glanced over and pulled his own phone from his pocket, switching it on. “59 missed calls. Shit.”

“We are in so much trouble.”

“You drive?” John said as he rushed out of the door, this time taking his coat with him.


	4. Chapter 4

Rather than going back to Baker Street, Sherlock had gone back to Mycroft's. They'd been at the hospital for a few days, his parents had left the hospital almost immediately and Mycroft had done the same, going back to collect their stuff first. That had left John and Sherlock in the hospital with Mary. Something the detective didn't overly enjoy.

The baby was a few weeks premature and there had been a few complications because of it, making Mary have to stay in the maternity ward a few days longer than what counted as usual, nothing dangerous was wrong, they both just needed monitoring. It had been odd, spending Christmas Day inside the hospital, but John spent most of it watching his baby girl through the plain glass screen. Sherlock had spent most of it pacing between Mary and John, not sure how he was supposed to be with either of them.

***

Not even a few hours Sherlock had been in his room when John walked straight in without knocking. “Are you planning on packing up your stuff or not?” Greg had let him in and been more than keen to see if the doctor could talk some sense into the detective.

Sherlock glanced up at him from his microscope and frowned, Molly had given him some decent samples to look at. For once. “Why would I do that?”

The doctor sighed and collapsed onto his bed. “Because I'm asking you to.”

“John, I-” He didn't really know what to say to make John piss off. Not without offending him, at least, and for some reason that wasn't something he wanted to do.

“Don't say you can't. Nothing needs to happen. I just need your help with Mary. Please.”

“My help? She's your wife... That little girl is yours. Stop acting like I'm so important.”

John closed his eyes and sighed quietly. He leant back against the wall, letting his head thud against it several times. “You are important.”

“No. I'm not.” The detective shook his head several times. “Stop pretending that I am. I'm just me. The druggie screw up that is the youngest member of my family. The disappointment. To everyone. Mummy... Daddy... Mycroft... you. I-”

“Shut up!” John barked, his tone shifting to no nonsense immediately. At the same time he threw himself to his feet. He suddenly loomed, despite his short stature.

Sherlock actually flinched so much he nearly came off his chair, but John didn't look apologetic at all. He looked angry.

“Get off that chair and kneel at my feet.”

“John-” Sherlock complained, slightly unsure.

“Now!”

That clinched it, he pushed his microscope away from the edge of the table and dropped himself at John's feet. He closed his eyes immediately, not realising how much he loved it; how much he had missed it.

As if on instinct, John reached out with his hand and ran it through the kneeling man's scruffed up curls. Sherlock had to contain himself from actually purring, he loved the feel of John's fingers that much.

After a few moments, the detective relaxed beneath John's hand, going completely floppy.

The blond watched the top of his head carefully and then closed his eyes. They stayed like that a long long while. Eventually, John settled back on the bed and turned the kneeling detective around to face him.

“Don't you ever, ever say those things about yourself again, do you hear me?” The doctor caught his face in his hands and made sure to look him in he eye. “I want a response, Sherlock.”

“Yes, sir,” the kneeling man whispered.

“You are not a disappointment. Not to me. Not to anyone. Answer me.”

“Yes, sir,” he repeated.

John pulled him against his knees as tight as he could manage. Sherlock may have seemed ok on the surface, but it was clear now that the truth of the matter was the fact he was in bits.

“You're coming home with me, Sherlock,” John whispered, blowing softly at the curls tucked over his ear. Mrs. Hudson would be so pleased to see him.

“Yes, sir,” he said for the third time, but this time, he sobbed. He couldn't think straight.

***

John led Sherlock into the flat by his hand. It hadn't taken long to pack Sherlock's stuff up, he hadn't really unpacked a lot of it and it had fit in one box.

Slowly, they climbed the stairs to B, the younger man's hand caught tightly in John's, like he didn't want him to slip away. “Babe, don't look so nervous.”

After Sherlock had knelt for so long earlier, the doctor had spent nearly an hour calming him down. Soothing him down into subspace and making him relax with a massage. The next time he had asked the younger man to pack, Sherlock had moved to comply without a counterproductive thought at all.

“Hey Sherlock.”

The detective glanced across the room. Mary was sat on the sofa, the little girl in her arms.

“It's alright,” John said, ruffling his curls. “She won't bite.”

Cautiously, Sherlock stepped forward. “What's her name?”

“Beth,” Mary answered, handing the baby to Sherlock.

“What?”

“She won't bite,” John repeated. He led Sherlock to a chair and pushed him into it. Then he pressed a kiss, first to Beth's head, then to Sherlock's and then to Mary's. By the time he was done, the detective was staring down at Beth. “She's just like you,” he whispered.


End file.
